


He comes from a dark place yet he's my light

by Nelja-in-English (Nelja)



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: Angst and Porn, Hand Jobs, Huddling For Warmth, Light Masochism, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:09:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23104513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelja/pseuds/Nelja-in-English
Summary: Robert warms up Victor's body and dreams about warming up his heart.
Relationships: Victor Frankenstein/Robert Walton
Comments: 7
Kudos: 32
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	He comes from a dark place yet he's my light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dissembler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dissembler/gifts).



The stranger is able to talk now: the boat surgeon confirms he's no longer on the brink of death. But his body has been burning hot all day. As soon as he could, Robert left his leadership duties to some cold water on his forehead, tucking a sweaty lock of hair before his ear. As the time for sleep arrives - not really night, not here and now -, he hopes he can care about his strange find more fervently, but he finds him ice cold instead. Still the same fever, running its course, shaking its victims from one extreme of discomfort to the other.

The boat's inner rooms give a welcome respite from the freezing polar winds, but it's still not a house’s warmth. Sailors keep multiple layers of clothes on even inside, and sleep under blankets. In the common room, their body heat keeps them warm. Robert's cabin is colder, but he has multiple blankets. He wanted to be an adventurer; he thought it would make him tough, but now he has another beautiful soul in his charge.

The stranger needs warmth; Robert runs to the kitchen, asks the cook for more hot soup. He tries to make the man drink it, barely manages to keep him awake. Robert manages to feed him a few spoonfuls while he's dreaming, and then the soup is cold. Robert fleetingly wonders what the dreams of such a wonderful man might look like. They have talked, without ever going deep into each other's hearts, but just his expression of anguish and wise remarks make him more fascinating than anyone Robert has ever met.

As he touches the stranger's cold forehead, Robert wishes his own hands were warmer; he wishes he could touch this bruised skin and bring him relief. He adds one more blanket, but while his heart feels the need to try everything, his mind knows very well that if the stranger's body is already too cold, it won't help.

The idea strikes him then, that if his hands are cold because he has been handling the icy ropes and sails of his boat, the rest of his body is warm and protected. He shivers as he strips to his shirt, and joins the man under the sheets and blankets.

The stranger's legs are cold against Robert's, but that means it's working; it means he's giving him body heat, and he intertwines them even closer. With his arms, because they are warmer than his hands, he explores the stranger's forearms, then his belly, under his shirt.

All of this is only a way to warm the stranger up, still a gust of embarrassment runs though Robert's blood. He realizes that if someone could see their bodies under the blankets, they would think they are lovers. He realizes that he is as ashamed as if it were true. Because this man exerts a strange attraction over him, not only his mind but his heart, and if he asked, Robert wouldn't mind... but of course, his strange companion is sleeping, and he would never want anything so crude anyway.

Robert decides that he's gone this far, so he might as well be useful to the end; and he pulls up his shirt, and the stranger’s. Now he can feel the stranger's icy back against his own belly and torso, now he can fully embrace him with his arms.

Usually, in a cold environment, a man will preserve his warmth for his core, and his skin and extremities will get cold too. But it's not like this. Robert's heart is beating so fast, even his hands are as heated as his cheeks now. He's touching him more all the time, warming him with his shame and hidden desires. He buries his face into the man's neck, but his lips are not moving, so it doesn't count as a kiss at all.

Finally the mysterious stranger's body gets almost as warm as his, and Robert gives himself the right to drift to sleep.

"Thank you," the stranger tells him the day after, and he smiles a kind and eager smile. He's a wise man; he knows that he was trying to help him, he has understood everything, Robert is certain of it. He's afraid he really understood all of it, saw into his eager heart.

* * *

Victor starts to tell his story, restrained emotion in his voice, and sleeping in each other's arms becomes almost an habit, though never truly, because Robert still shivers in anticipation every time.

They agreed to share this bed, but they don't have to touch each other this way. And yet they talk, and Robert marvels once again at his companion's mind, and then they lie together, legs and hands intertwined, his guilt assuaged because even when he's healthy, Victor's hands and feet are so cold... They keep their shirts on this time, though, and Robert often feels the urge to kiss Victor's long, beautiful, cold hands, but he doesn't act on it.

Robert loves this more than anything, Victor in his arms, opening up to him, confiding his darkest secrets and his most genuine feelings in him. But as Robert's feelings grow, it starts to hurt too, hearing about Henry Clerval, about Elizabeth even. It's not right to be jealous of the dead, and Robert knows it makes him a bad person, but he can't stop himself. He only controls his actions, barely, not at all his emotions.

He can't even define his own feelings, but he knows they're too strong, making him almost delirious, in the rare moments where he's alone. He tries to make it reasonable when he writes to his beloved sister; he doesn't want her to think less of him. It's enough that Robert thinks less of himself. He wanted a dearest friend. Does friendship make the heart and the skin burn?

He used to sleep very well: tired, dreamless nights. Now sleep takes longer to come to him, because each instant of unconsciousness deprives him of a moment spent with Victor. One night, he's woken up by a sob. It's not a loud sound, but he recognizes Victor's voice; even sleeping, his mind recognizes a distress he has never shown that deeply.

"Victor, Victor," he asks in panic, his hands looking for his friend's body, fearing for another attack of his fever. But Victor's skin is neither too hot nor too cold, perfect. "They're all dead," he intones. His voice is trembling. Oh, he has gone through the tale of his mistakes and loss, and his words vibrated in his mouth like the saddest and most beautiful music, but they have never sounded so lost!

"You had a nightmare," Robert says, with despair in his voice. "I'm here, I'm here for you." He's not sure it counts for Victor. It's not him he wants by his side.

Robert won't ask, but already his mind is flowing, remembering how many horrors Victor has seen, how hellish his nightmares can be even when the darkness of imagination has no part in it. Victor is breathing too fast, and Robert wants to do something to make him feel better. He takes his hand very softly, presses it harder when Victor doesn't remove it, then hesitantly takes it to his lips, reverently kisses the knuckles.

"Robert..." Victor's voice is faltering, but he doesn't reject him. Desire takes Robert in its arms, bids him to hold Victor, to kiss his whole body. When Victor takes his hand, leads it to his side, Robert hopes against all reason that he's not dreaming. Under Victor's shirt, he finds his beautiful skin, strokes it hesitantly.

"Don't go easy on me, Robert, I beg you," Victor whispers. Even in such a situation, his voice is noble and elegant.

"I'll hurt you," Robert protests, if only to stop himself. He wants to hold him tight and never let him go.

"Yes, you will." Victor answers. "Because I'm disgustingly sick and fragile. And still I beg you to do it."

"Why?" 

"Because I’ve been wrong so many times, because I put humanity and the ones I love in danger because of my weakness."

"No one would have done better," Robert protests.

Victor looks him in the eye, his gaze burning with passion. "Also, because I can't return the kindness you gave to me, my savior. I opened my soul to you, thinking you would keep your distance from such a fallen man, but you gave me more affection than I can return, so little is left in my broken heart. I wish you to... please touch me, and make it hurt."

Robert can't resist such a plea, and not only because he's dying for Victor's skin. His fingers dig into Victor's ribs, and the moan it elicits makes his whole body tremble. He buries his face into Victor's neck, kisses and kisses again, feels his heartbeat though throat and lips, and then he bites, as if it were the delicious nectar of the gods.

"Thank you," Victor says, with that enchanting voice of his, before arching against Robert's body. It makes Robert mad with desire; he ruts against Victor, his shirt raised up, his prick swelling. He can't understand how he controlled himself before, so close to Victor, half-naked and beautiful, with his skin begging for touch. But he needs to manage it again. He can't be such an animal.

"I'm the one who should thank you," he says, between kisses on Victor's neck, on his cheeks, on his eyelids. How strange is it, that he's pleasuring himself on Victor's thigh, but he can't bring himself to kiss his wonderful lips.

"Oh," Victor starts, with a tenderness that makes Robert's heart leap. And then, for once, he can't find his words, and just whispers. "Touch me again. I want to feel you."

Robert has big hands; he grabs Victor's shoulders and then kisses his lips, at last, the seat of his voice, where his soul shines. He's rewarded by hands grabbing his hair, driving him closer. He’s never dreamed of such contentment, and he could call it happiness, if he could lie to himself and believe it was the beginning of forever.

"What do you want from me," he asks, breathing hard, and as he's no angel, he adds "What will you let me do to you?"

Victor's breath catches in his throat at the last question, before he answers. "Touch me. However you like."

Robert takes one more short kiss, and rolls on his side. One his hands slides over Victor's torso, then his hip. Finally he gets to the thigh, and extends tentative fingers to Victor's prick. He's relieved to find it hard and wanting, and starts to squeeze it in his fist, the way he likes it best when he's shamefully touching himself.

Victor gasps, and Robert loves it, without any innocence, so far away from his childhood dreams. He's not Henry Clerval and he's not Elizabeth, but he will give Victor what they never did. It's not a lot, but it belongs to them alone.

Victor rolls on his side too, facing him. He genuinely wants to be touched, and Robert won't deny him anything. It's already bad that he briefly considers it, making him wait, to make this moment in time last longer. Their bodies fit together, and for a while Robert wants to remove all the blankets, to see Victor's body and his arousal, no longer fearing the cold as he feels like he's burning enough with his own heat. But he doesn't, for Victor's privacy, and for his health. He gives his prick longer, slower strokes.

And then Victor's hands join his, his hips turn and align with Robert's, and their pricks are rubbing against each other.

Robert would have loudly moaned, but with his other hand, Victor covers his mouth. Of course, he's very right, no one must hear them. Robert forgot that all the darkness about this wasn't in his heart alone, that he was guilty in front of society and God. Right now only Victor matters, only the feelings and the sensations Robert can offer him.

"Harder, please," Victor whispers. Robert kisses his palm, and happily complies.

Isn't it funny and cruel, how their fingers are interlaced like innocent lovers', even as they experience a forbidden, dirty pleasure? Robert lets Victor guide him, changes his rhythm and strength without any need for words. It's not long before he's close to climax. He dances on the edge for as long as he can, trying to forget who is is; he lets himself go only when Victor comes in his hand, with a long sigh.

He kisses Victor's lips again afterward, and Victor lets himself be held, even sighs in satisfaction when Robert finishes exploring his bruises. Maybe Victor won't reject him, maybe Robert hasn't ruined everything. He allows himself to think about joining him, promising him that he won't be alone even after leaving the boat, following him on the ice on his mad hunt for his monster. It's not like Robert has any chance left for success on his own expedition. He can forsake his own self, when Victor is here. He only wants him.

"You gave me the sweetest of farewells," Victor says, without any hesitation or shyness, and Robert's heart crumbles, as he understands what all this truly was. "You know I still have to give my life to my quest, and I didn't deserve such mercy from destiny in the meantime. I won't take anything more from you."

Robert wants him to take, and take, but he knows the man, he knows the inflexibility of his will. That’s why he can rejoice in the knowledge that what happened today was not a lapse in judgement, but he can't lose his dignity and beg him to change his mind, not without any hope of success. 

He keeps holding Victor hard, but words of love die on his lips. He already knows they will leave ghosts, haunting his mind until he dies.


End file.
